Ambivalence
by thomgondola
Summary: I was an enigma of fear and loathing. But, much to my delight, I suspect the fear outweighed the loathing. For you cannot fully loathe someone or something unless you know exactly who or what it is.- Ambivalence


**'Ello! I'm going to start off my fic by stating that I own none of the characters, nor do I claim to. They are the wonderful creations of Gaston Leroux, to whom I have immense respect for. I _highly_ recommend reading his absolutely awe-inspiring story _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra._ I would like to add that I was inspired not only by Gaston Leroux, but also by Ken Hill and his _wonderful_ musical. I recommend it to anybody! I would also like to credit Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical with introducing me to this wonderfully tragic and poignant story when I was a lass. And my two favorite Phantoms to date- Michael Crawford and John-Owen Jones!**

**This first chapter is short, but I thought starting it out with a short chapter would be the best way to go with this. - thomgondola**

**Please read and review :)**

Ambivalent might be the word to begin to describe exactly what my feelings for Christine have grown to be. To sum up my feelings in one little four syllable word seems too simple. But I've decided the only way to begin my story was to sum up my feelings for her in one word. I loved her as much as I held her in disdain. This animosity was not perceptible immediately, it grew over time.

The person you love is rarely worthy of how immense your love is. If only someone had told me she wasn't worthy of my love. Though, I don't think I would have been credulous had someone said that to me.

I've had my trust broken. I've been let down, disappointed. I've lost more than I've won when it came to Christine. Surely my love is worth more than_ that_. In reflection, I don't suppose I was worthy of her love either. My love for her may have been prodigious and incessant, but it seemed as though her love was sacred, virtuous and distant. Something I wasn't able to reach no matter what I did to try and obtain it. This formidable love I had for her wasn't something I chose to entertain willfully. What started as admiration grew into desperate obsession. Though my experience with love is circumscribed considerably (for obvious reasons), I can safely say, without any reservation, that my love for Christine was as insurmountable as it was genuine.

No, she wasn't worthy of my love, but neither did she deserve the burden of it.

To initiate our (that is, mine and Christine's) story, I will start from the beginning as so many inspiring stories have started. But you may find my story uninspiring. That is very well. I have no intent other than to tell the great tragic tale from my perspective for once. It being _my_ tragic love story. I know it might seem strange to hear it from the cryptic Phantom of the Opera, or Christine's mysterious Angel of Music, because I was such a mystery... even to myself.

They called me the "Opera Ghost" at the opera house, and I was not going to correct them by saying otherwise. I was an enigma of fear and loathing. But, much to my delight, I suspect the fear outweighed the loathing. For you cannot fully loathe someone or something unless you know exactly who or what it is. This I widely credit to Joseph Buquet, the scene shifter at the opera house. He told tales to the young aspiring ballerinas that even made _my_ skin crawl. Not because of their inaccuracies, but because of their gruesome definitiveness. These tales were soon met with squeals of terrified delight from the little ballet girls. I knew most people considered these stories made up daydreams of a bored and aging scene shifter, but I still felt unsettled. I was used to the cruel, abhorrent words that were spoken, but I knew that I couldn't leave my home or have any human contact lest someone found it their right to kill me. After all, what people can't understand leads to hatred and that ultimately leads to death. And that death would be my own.

I was in my lair feverously working on my new music endeavor when I first hear a faint echo emit from the ceiling above me. It was distant and mesmerizing. I suddenly felt a strange urge to travel, higher and higher, until I reached this hypnotic melody. I was on the stars backstage before I knew it, and was woken from this surreal dream when I was suddenly met with the sight of Joseph Buquet. I, having been out of my senses, left my mask on the organ mixed with a mass of sheet music. He made a move to grab my cloak, but I had been too quick for him. Having been well-versed in the art of assassination, the weapon of my choice being the Punjab Lasso, he was soon hanging between a set piece and a scene from _Roi de Lahore_. Never before had I been so clumsy as to be seen by somebody when it had not been my intent. There was something about this voice that made me feel as though I could rebuild Rome in a day. It also left me with a feeling I haven't felt since my childhood- weakness. I knew very well that if I wasn't careful this voice could destroy me, but at the same time I knew I wouldn't be able to live without hearing it again.


End file.
